


Bad Company

by tanyart



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Identity Porn, Identity Swap, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-23
Updated: 2019-01-23
Packaged: 2019-10-14 21:41:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17516357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanyart/pseuds/tanyart
Summary: Drifter convinces the Renegade to be his back-up while visiting the seedy bar,Yesteryear. The Renegade agrees, and finds out some interesting things about what Drifter thinks about Shin Malphur.





	Bad Company

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, fish for the beta read!! I would have perished without it.
> 
> (PWP, pre-identity reveal for the Renegade.)

 

“ _Yesteryear_ ,” Shin reads the sign without much enthusiasm.

“That’s the place. Great booze, not too huge on food though, trust me.”

Shin grimaces. The bar looks to be the standard fare for the Tangled Shore, built right into the face of a cliff with a nasty drop into nothingness if some poor bastard happens to stumble ( _or be thrown_ ) too far out the entrance. As far as Shin can tell, it’s not one of the Spider’s sanctioned places. Got some Fallen decor around the front, but the boot prints leading in are all human.

Shin takes his eye from the sniper’s scope, frowning under his helmet. Meanwhile, the Drifter eases back against their rock cover, rolling his head towards Shin.

Drifter’s got on a helmet too, but Shin knows the other man’s grinning.

“Maybe this’ll be easier if you told me who you’re trying to find,” says Shin, lowering the rifle.

“Naw,” Drifter says, throwing his hands back behind his head. “Only said I needed an extra gun in case things get hairy. Didn’t say anythin’ about _tactical input_. You agreed. So; _be that gun_.”

Shin rolls his shoulders back, quelling his annoyance. He knows he can’t get anymore information out of Drifter for now. Trying again would only waste time. _Yesteryear_ looks like bad news too, not anything Shin can actually see, but he can feel some kind of muffled energy seeping around the bar, dark and lurking.

The sniper rifle goes back into storage, and he has Ghost transmat a sidearm and a SMG to his holsters. Close quarters gear. He itches for a hand cannon, but it’ll be the last resort.

Drifter hums under his breath. The fractional shift of his helmet gives away his HUD scrolling. A moment later, Drifter transmats a different set of armor on himself; the robes get swapped out for a lighter chestplate, leg armor less baggy, standard military-grade boots to his knees. Even the strange fur pauldrons disappear for no-frills, padded sleeves. Only the black helmet remains the same, but even that's sort of different.

Shin watches as each piece appears, sometimes leaving Drifter’s limbs in a transparent outline of white lines. He tries to puzzle out the make of the black armor, feeling a little funny about seeing Drifter in something less archaic, less bundled up and more armored.

Drifter almost looks normal. If Shin hadn’t seen him swap outfits like that, he would’ve assumed Drifter took off and left a stranger in his place. He frowns and sits back.

After few seconds of fussing over his new disguise, Drifter turns to Shin, and even his usual rustling is different. It’s quieter now, with faint taps of metal against leather instead of cloth.

“Lemmie borrow one of your cloaks,” Drifter says, nudging him. “I know you have more than one.”

Shin doesn’t hold back his surprise. His answer is more of a knee jerk response than an actual thought out reply; “Use your own.”

Drifter’s shoulders hitch up, like he’s just let out a laugh that Shin can’t see.

“Don’t got one, pal,” he says in his sardonic drawl, “Ain’t a Hunter.”

_Bullshit,_ Shin wants to say. The Drifter might shroud himself in mystery and vague references to his past, but every Lightbearer has a signature frequency with a generalized class they fall into. Shin can sense it emitting from Drifter—and, the honest truth here; if it moves like a Hunter, shoots like Hunter, and _talks_ like a Hunter, chances are you’re dealing with a Hunter. Or something that _was_ a Hunter.

Shin scowls, gripping the barrel of his rifle. Besides, people just don’t go swapping around cloaks, or marks, or bonds—not without some hefty implications. Vows of revenge. Dead lovers. Looted trophies. Shin isn’t in the habit of following typical Guardian culture and manners, but he still isn’t keen with the idea of letting Drifter wear one of his cloaks.

But Shin isn’t exactly a Guardian. And neither is the Renegade. Or the Drifter.

With a resigned grunt, Shin waves his hand and Ghost transmats one of his plain cloaks.

“No, not that one,” Drifter immediately says and has the _balls_ to follow up with, “Lemmie see your cloak inventory.”

Shin bristles, but it gives him enough time to modify the list and send it to Drifter’s HUD. Drifter makes a disparaging noise, one that might’ve tempted a less forgiving Hunter into outright murder.

After a contemplative three seconds, Drifter laughs. “Ho-ho, this one’ll do just fine-”

He pulls one of Shin’s older cloaks out, modestly patterned gray with the Vanguard symbols faded off. Thing’s got to be about two hundred years old, metaphorically collecting dust in Shin’s storage. It settles over Drifter’s shoulders, more fitting than Shin cares to admit.

Shin opens his mouth to say something scathing, but it comes out as a sharp hiss when Drifter slaps a garish scarlett shader over it. “ _Hey!_ ”

Drifter rolls aside, dodging out of reach in a flash of red. Shin’s cloak flutters behind him as he stands with a flourishing sweep of his arms. The cloak settles back with a quick snap.

“No need to get all pissy,” Drifter says. He draws up the hood over his head, giving it a cheeky tug. “I’ll pull the shader off when we’re through. It don’t look half bad, eh?”

It looks good, because of course it does. It’s _Shin’s_ cloak, an old personal one, but Drifter wears it well — and it’s honestly an objective assessment. Shin notes how Drifter holds his arms out of the way so they don’t catch the cloth, how the folds and creases stay in place with unconscious effort, the way Drifter fastens his weapons either under or over the cloak. Even after a few adjustments, it’s clear he’s worn cloaks before.

Shin falls silent, full of sudden regret.

Drifter may claim he’s not a Hunter, but the roots show loud and clear. Shin refuses to feel shocked by this. He quickly gets to his feet, looking sidelong at him. Drifter’s got a different set of holsters on too. Hand cannons. Knives. No rifle.

“You ready?” Shin asks, wary.

“I was rezzed ready,” Drifter says, and waves Shin away.

The plan is for Shin to enter the bar first, count heads, and wait for the Drifter to the make contact with his missing person. If things go sideways, Shin helps out with the gunfight. Simple enough, though Shin suspects the details are lacking for a reason.

Shin makes it halfway down the slope to _Yesteryear’s_ entrance when Drifter’s voice buzzes into his comm.

“Better lose the cloak. They don’t much like Guardians in there. Order the Rose Julep. Wait for my signal.”

And here comes the details. Shin bites back his tongue. He suspects Drifter’s missing guy is a Shadow, or something close to one. Drifter’s smug hints over the past few hours haven’t been hard to miss, and Shin burns to go on a hunt, even if it lands him in a shitty bar on the Tangled Shore with another Lightbearer who likely will try to kill him someday.

Shin transmats his cloak back in storage, posture adjusting to the missing weight. _Rose Julep_. The reference doesn’t escape him. “What’s the signal?”

“Oh, you’ll know.” Drifter chuckles, still tucked away behind his rock.

Shin stares ahead, taking in a breath and letting it out slow. He holsters his sidearm with more force than necessary before going into the bar.

_Yesteryear’s_ interior is just about what Shin expects it to be. He’s been in his fair share of seedy bars before. At first glance, this one isn’t anything different. It’s dim, buzzing with activity and murmured conversations. Beneath all that, the Darkness thrums in the air like a thin mist.

The muddled energy Shin had felt earlier washes over him. He lets it, despite his inclination to withdraw. The Darkness as he knows it feels empty, a vast hunger that burns neither hot nor cold. In _Yesteryear_ , it feels diluted. Tepid. Mixed with Light and conflicting energies. Shin gets a taste of it at the back of his throat and finds it lacking. Watered down. _Weak_.

A few patrons glance his way, and Shin counts the glow of Awoken eyes and Exo optics, along with the darker gazes of humans. Shin ignores them, going straight for the open bar, and then no one’s paying him any mind anymore.

He’s probably the most dangerous thing in _Yesteryear_ now.

The bartender is an Exo with yellow headlights for eyes. They give Shin an inquiring look as he takes a seat and pointedly doesn’t remove his helmet.

Shin purses his lips, knowing he’s already decided to play Drifter’s game. He doesn’t have to like it though. “Rose Julep.”

The bartender’s eyes don’t flicker, but Shin can see how their shoulders draw up, just a little bit. After a second of shuffling beneath the bar, they serve up some water in a highball glass and set it down in front of Shin.

Shin stares at it. His HUD scan shows the water is tap, at 27 degrees Celsius.

“Roses are out of season,” says the bartender, not sounding very apologetic.

“Cryptic,” Shin says, wry, but he lets the bartender go. Doesn’t bother touching the water or taking off the helmet. For now, he turns around in his seat and waits.

To his annoyance, he ends up waiting for a good while. Two more people slip into the bar, completely unremarkable. Not everyone in _Yesteryear_ is a Lightbearer, but all of them have some kind of gun visible at their side. It’s _that_ kind of crowd.

Shin drums his fingers over the countertop, letting the water in his glass ripple. He notices the bartender duck away out of sight. They don’t come back. Shin raises a brow and keeps his gaze to the entrance.

Sure enough, the doors slide open wide and in comes a man in matte black armor, red cloak billowing from the change in air pressure.

The bar abruptly falls silent. It looks like Drifter was right — not a whole lot of people seem too keen about the bright red cloak, the faded Vanguard symbols especially. Everyone’s suddenly got a hand to their gun or at least their eyes on the Drifter. Shin’s no exception, but he settles back, propping on elbow on the counter to watch.

Drifter walks further into the bar, almost unrecognizable. His usual swagger is gone, replaced by something far more calm and measured. Shin thinks he might’ve gotten a kick out of it, but the hairs at the back of his neck prickles, unsettled. He can’t place what’s throwing him off until Drifter rolls his shoulders back, he realizes the Drifter’s gone and mimicked _his_ quiet gait, how _he_ holsters his weapons and shoulders his cloak.

Shin feels his jaw tighten. It takes everything in him not to follow everyone’s example and pull out his sidearm.

Still, Drifter gets stopped a few steps in by a couple of tough-looking Lightbearers.

“Brave of you coming in here, Guardian. Maybe too brave,” says one of them, a huge hulking guy that could’ve been a Titan in another life.

The Drifter’s flat voice comes out distorted through the helmet. “I’m looking for a man. Used to go by Vale. I think some of you might know where he could be hiding.”

Shin starts at the name, though he keeps an eye out for any unusual reactions from the bar. Matter of fact, he gets _several_ reactions as a dozen guns click at once. None of it matters; his gaze turns away, hackles rising.

Someone pulls a trigger, but Shin’s got his eyes dead fixed on Drifter, all his attention on the man. He knows there isn’t anyone worth looking at now, nobody else that’s going to be as dangerous -

Drifter raises his hand, summoning a burst of Solar energy, and lights up a _Golden fuckin’ Gun,_ just like that. Flicker quick on the draw, not a millisecond wasted, and nails the biggest guy through the forehead.

The Lightbearer’s Ghost springs up from the corpse, and Drifter uses a second golden bullet to shoot it through without looking.

A pulse of diffused energy rattles the entire bar, the Lightbearer’s infinite life snuffed out in an instant. Pieces of the Ghost’s shell clatter to the ground. With his last bullet, the Drifter shoots the floor at his feet just as the Golden Gun disappears from his hand.

“I’m Shin Malphur,” the Drifter announces to the burning room. He draws out a hand cannon, a sharp-pointed thorn of a gun, black and sleek as night. No bluster, all grim business. “Let’s try this again.”

 

* * *

 

Everything that happens next is in bits and pieces. Shin remembers seeing red, fury shuttering like a spark wanting to burst. Something in him disconnects, and he should be grateful for the instinct to shut down cold. Otherwise, he’s sure he would’ve put a bullet through Drifter’s skull himself.

Lucky for him, the rest of _Yesteryear_ seems to take care of that urge for him. The bar bursts into a hail of shrapnel and debris, weapons roaring around him. Shin’s armor shields flare up. The damage is negligible so he stays put, watching as the scene unfolds.

Drifter is a blur with knife and gun in hand. And he’s nothing but red too, Solar flames weaving through the crowd, dripping blood painting him a bright target. He’s doing none of the fancy flourishes Shin knows him for — the dramatic gestures, the ridiculous showmanship, the loudmouthed remarks. It’s all gone, replaced by motions stripped down to their barest action, but even that is a performance in itself.

The number of Lights start to get dwindle, picked off each time Drifter’s cannon barks loud. Other times, a life gets snuffed to silence by a knife. Shin barely blinks through it all, absorbing every step, every turn and flash of that red cloak.

Half of _Yesterday_ is dead, the spreading fire more alive than anything else in the room.

Drifter looks towards Shin. For a moment, Shin thinks Drifter is staring at him, but Drifter swings his gun, aiming, and Shin knows not to move. He does, however, tip his head, almost like an invitation — _go ahead_.

Drifter pulls the trigger, and the Warlock creeping behind Shin slumps over the counter, dead. Drifter turns away, back to the fight, jumping onto the chairs and tables for a better view of his next targets.

A Ghost pops up, scans running through the corpse. Probably thinks it can sneak in a revive. Shin draws out his sidearm, pointing it at the Ghost’s core.

“ _Leave it_ ,” Shin says, still watching Drifter. He sees the Ghost flinch from the corner of his eye, but it blinks away without its Lightbearer. Shin almost wishes it had tried, just to see how Drifter would shoot it again.

It’s a terrible, wholly _heartless_ thought.

And Shin’s always known Drifter as dangerous. Dangerous ideas, dangerous schemes, and dangerous in a fight. But knowing isn’t the same thing as getting a front row seat to see Drifter act the one man army. Shin catches himself observing the way Drifter moves, half enraptured, half threatened. The trepidation lasts for longer than he likes, but after a while, Shin starts seeing the mistakes, just the tiniest slips. A shot going wild. A sloppy stab into someone’s throat instead of a vital organ. A pause too long to reload. Shin can exploit each one of them — and Shin knows, with a certain amount of ruthless clarity, if it ever comes down to it, he’d win any fight against Drifter on skill alone.

Drifter stumbles, dropping his cold persona for a second. Shin sees him pull the trigger with a chamber gone dry, miscounting his bullets. Drifter’s helmet tilts by a fraction, surprised, and Shin can practically hear Drifter mutter _fuck_ under his breath as he begins to reload, kicking aside a table for both cover and as a distraction.

Leaning back, Shin takes his eyes off Drifter to shoot two Lightbearers. He’s tempted to use his own hand cannon — _any_ hand cannon. The sidearm is enough to pick off the shields and by the time the two Lightbearers have cottoned on to Shin playing the hidden back-up, Drifter’s done reloading and the two end up with a bullet in their heads.

After that, it’s only the few toughest Lightbearers left, the rest having fled or waiting on their Ghosts to drag them back to the realm of the living. It doesn’t escape Shin’s notice that Drifter’s left the Ghosts alone. Aside from the first Lightbearer he had shot down to true death, the rest of _Yesteryear’s_ company seems to have been granted another chance at life later.

The last three Lightbearers are dispatched with the same amount of simplistic viciousness. Shin hears rather than sees the bodies fall, done in by three thunderclap shots from Drifter’s cannon.

And then, it’s just the two of them. Shin lets go of the breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. He’s too focused on Drifter, waiting to see if there’s any fight left in him.

Drifter strides right to him, still a whirlwind of red, boots leaving a trail of bloody prints. Shin times Drifter’s measured gait, knowing the exact number of shots he could’ve fired off in the seconds it takes Drifter to reach him.

Five steps, four steps, three, two —

Drifter pulls him by the chestplate, two fingers hooking over the top. Shin feels the leftover Solar energy radiating from Drifter. He burns from it, suddenly turning restless. At another tug from Drifter, Shin slides off his chair, nabbing the Rose Julep, drink untouched.

It says a lot when Drifter doesn’t move as Shin pours the glass of water over Drifter’s shoulders. Hot steam hisses down the cloak, its ends now charred and singed.

“You owe me a new cloak,” Shin says, calm, as Drifter’s hold on him tightens.

They transmat out of _Yesteryear_ just as the bright light of resurrections start flickering around them.

 

* * *

 

Shin materializes on the Derelict to the echoes of Drifter’s uproarious laughter. He grits his teeth. Drifter’s laugh is way too loud in his ears, the weight of his hand missing at Shin’s chest.

Drifter’s practically twirling away, arms thrown in dramatic effect. Back to distracting flourishes and misdirection.

“Woo, now _that_ was a gunfight,” Drifter crows. He pulls off his helmet, hair matted with sweat, and tosses it aside with an undeserved amount of energetic spite. “Ugh, old as shit helmet, cooling vent got fucked,” he complains by way of explanation, and uses the blackened hem of Shin’s cloak to wipe his forehead.

The helmet rolls aside. Shin sees that’s got blaster burns at the front where Drifter ate a bullet or two. Looking at Drifter now, the black armor is a little more than scuffed, broken in blindsides, seared in more obvious places.

“What?” Drifter asks when Shin’s silence stretches on for too long. “You doin’ alright there, pal?”

Shin’s seething. Probably has been for the entire time. He could attest it to the physical shock of being dropped from _Yesteryear’s_ burning building and into the Derelict’s frigid air. From hearing the crackle of flames and deadly gunfire to Drifter’s laugh and flashy swagger. Seeing Drifter revert back to his shitty bastard self kicks Shin right back into his initial fury and disbelief.

“The _fuck_ were you doing back there?” Shin demands.

And Shin is a far cry from being born yesterday. He knows there are copycats out there, using his name for nefarious purposes. Databases full of shit and half-baked rumors can give anyone a story to claim as truth. He just never figured Drifter to have the nerve to do it. Never thought he’d get so riled over it either.

Drifter raises his brow, not oblivious to Shin’s angry tone. At this point, he’s likely tuned in with it.

“Spider dropped a few tips about some rowdy Lightbearers up to no good. The ones that like to flirt with the Darkness but don’t commit,” he replies before letting loose a derisive laugh. “You know the type.”

“Why chase them out?”

Drifter looks at him sidelong. “Word goes out that some fucker with a Golden Gun is shootin’ up their hideouts here on the Shore, they go running. Maybe back to familiar territory.”

“The City,” Shin says, flat.

“Sure,” Drifter says with a sly smile and a one-shouldered shrug that brushes the hood of Shin’s cloak to his jaw.

That does it.

“Bold and dumb as hell, flinging that name around and carryin’ a piece that looks an awful lot like _that_ gun,” he says, taking a step forward, getting into Drifter’s space. “He might just hunt you down and kill you for it.”

Infuriatingly, the underlying warning doesn’t seem to phase him. If anything, Drifter gets more smug about it.

“I figure that bastard will already want to kill me. What’s he gonna do? Kill me _extra_? ‘Sides, guys posing as the old mythics are a dime a dozen here in this system. Knockoff gun and everything.” Then Drifter’s smile turns razor sharp. He closes the gap between them and slings an arm around Shin's shoulders, drawing in with his voice pitched low, “Why? You thinkin’ I might be him? The Man with the Golden Gun?”

Shin wants to laugh. He settles for a bitter smile hidden under his helmet. “Not a chance,” he says, more on a exhale than anything. His fists clench, just wanting to throw that punch.

_The Man with the Golden Gun_. Drifter’s always eager to talk shit, but for a guy who thinks he can outsmart his target, he always seems to dodge around the subject. Hasn't even said Shin’s real name since the shootout. In fact, it might’ve been the first time Shin’s ever heard him say it out loud.

Still under Drifter’s arm, Shin’s gaze drops down from Drifter’s eyes to his smirking mouth — and suddenly he’s stricken with urgent, ugly need to hear Drifter say his name again.

The punch he wants to throw turns into a grip at collar of Drifter’s hood, straining the red fabric. Drifter’s getting to be an easy read these days, and he’s edging close enough to imply where he wants to go with all this back and forth. Shin bites the bait, and he bites _hard_.

He pivots on his foot, just so that he can line himself nicely in front of Drifter, but not before he rips the shader’s data away from the cloak. The bright red flickers, color bleeding back to its original muted colors.

Drifter only laughs, staggering back as Shin presses his weight against him. Both his hands go right over Shin’s ass, kneading down like he’s been itching to do it for a while. “Knew it. You Hunters always get so worked up over cloaks.”

“You’re one to talk. You kept it on.” Shin’s arm hooks around Drifter’s neck. He bends his head, the cold metal of his helmet against Drifter’s ear. "You think Shin Malphur would gut me for hanging 'round you?"

“You curious?” Drifter asks. He glances down, feeling just where Shin is pressing into, and grins with all his teeth. “Hot for it?”

Shin puts his hand over the hard outline of Drifter’s dick through his pants. That oughta be answer enough. He’s surprised by how rough his voice sounds, and maybe he’d be embarrassed if he hadn’t been dying to know; “How’d you think he’d do it?”

Drifter pauses, leaving Shin to slowly grind against his hip. His head tilts, like he’s really considering it. Shin barely catches the baleful flash in Drifter’s eye before Drifter shoves him away, getting a good angle to sweep his leg under Shin.

Shin hits the floor hard, the breath knocked out of him. He’s got good enough reflexes to brace his hands behind him, ready to spring back to his feet, but Drifter only ignores him to step towards his broken helmet, stooping to pick it up from the ground. Shin stays where he is, all his attention caught on Drifter’s every move.

Drifter puts the helmet on, flicking the clasps in place. When he strides back over to Shin, it’s with the same measured gait he’d shown walking through _Yesteryear_ , coldly putting down everyone that had been in there. And just like before, Shin can’t keep his eyes off him. Heat simmers in the pit of his stomach, and Shin’s forced to acknowledge that he likes seeing this Drifter a lot — quiet, focused, carrying that same dangerous intent even when he slides one boot slowly over Shin's crotch.

There’s barely any pressure so Shin bucks up into the heel of Drifter’s boot, dropping back to his elbows to get a better angle. And he knows how it must look like in Drifter’s eyes — the Renegade on the floor with his legs spread and hungry for it — but maybe that’s just his bit of playacting too.

Must have been satisfying enough to watch. Drifter finally applies some weight between Shin’s legs, and Shin rolls his head back with a quiet gasp. Now that Drifter’s gotten that stupid red cloak back to its proper dark color, Shin can admit he looks a touch menacing, looming over him in his sleek black armor.

Drifter stares him down, that dark gun in his hand again. It’s definitely not Thorn, but it looks close enough for it to be some kind of homage. Shin should’ve taken a better look, been wary, but all caution flies right out his head when Drifter finally speaks.

“Why’d you have to go and roll over for a guy like ‘im, huh Renegade?” he says, voice low and distorted through the helmet. Not like his usual self at all. More pressure from his boot, rubbing small circles over Shin. “You always this easy to get on your back like this?”

Shin’s next gasp is more to hide his breathy laugh. Drifter really _does_ think Shin Malphur as one mean sonuvabitch. And Shin’s more thrilled and turned on than he has any right to be by it.

Drifter’s boot leaves his crotch, and Shin’s not quite pretending anymore when he mumbles _don’t, no_ — but the sight of Drifter towering over him one more time before dropping down to straddle him leaves Shin flat on his back, dry mouthed and silent.

There’s no struggle at all when he lets Drifter pin his wrists up with one hand in a loose hold. Shin tries to grind up into him, gratified to feel Drifter’s just as hard, but Drifter must’ve had other plans; he lifts himself up from Shin’s hips, his one-handed grip over Shin’s wrists tightening for emphasis.

“You wanna get off that bad?” Drifter says, easing back to his knees and letting go of Shin’s hands. Shin can’t see it, staring at him, but he hears the cylinder of his gun spin, hammer clicking back in place. “Then touch yourself.”

Shin burns. There’s a sliver of skin showing at the base of Drifter’s neck, where his armor sleeve doesn’t make it up to join his helmet. It’s flushed, shining with sweat. Drifter can only pretend so much — and it’s with that thought Shin puts his hands down, down to his belts, eyes going to the ceiling. He pulls off one glove, just one, and starts undoing the clasps.

Derelict doesn't feel so cold now. The air almost feels like the way _Yesteryear_ had burned. Shin does the bare minimum of getting his pants open enough to get his cock out, tip already red and wet.

Drifter watches him, faceless and impassive and waiting. The Thorn-like gun hangs from his hand at his side, his trigger finger idly scratching along the barrel. Shin shudders, working himself over in slow strokes, wondering what it’d take to make Drifter change his mind and get his hands on him.

A part of Shin hates how easy it is, arching into his own hand, spurred on by knowing all of Drifter’s attention is on him. _What had it been—?_ Probably back at that shitty bar, when Drifter had stared past him like he was another piece of furniture in the room, had shot the Warlock dead, and then continued to pay him no mind. Getting Drifter’s focus back on him felt sort of like, _deliciously_ like payback.

Shin shifts his legs, drawing one knee up. It’s only partly calculated, but sure enough Drifter’s hand comes up to the back of his thigh, holding it steady.

“Keep going,” Drifter says, rough, as Shin’s hand squeezes around his shaft, trying to spread the beading precome over himself. The tip of his gun touches the edge of Shin’s helmet beneath his chin.

It should be laughable that _this_ is how Drifter thinks of Shin Malphur, the Man with the Golden Gun, the cold and ruthless legend. But another part of Shin loves the idea that Drifter thinks the fucking _worst_ of him, like he’s some kind of monster built over centuries of night terrors.

Might be wrong to feel flattered, but here they are.

A choked moan escapes from between his teeth, desperate sounding and needy. He feels Drifter’s hand twitch under his thigh, no longer steady, and then Drifter is surging over him, both hands flat at either side of Shin’s head, pushing Shin’s legs over his shoulders.

This close, he can hear Drifter’s rapid breathing through the helmet, see his chest move up and down. _Still_ refusing to touch him. With a sudden viciousness spiraling up his spine, Shin suddenly wants to know what’ll it take to get Drifter to break character. Forcing his hand off himself, he shuts his eyes to that faceless helmet, turns his head, and lets out a quiet, thready whimper.

There’s a noise from Drifter, almost angry but more wanting, and then there’s a hand closing over Shin’s throat, pressing down, and that’s when Shin _knows_ —

It’s all Drifter. Everything Drifter’s doing to him — putting him on his back, pointing that sinister gun at him, the hand at his neck, cutting off his air — it’s everything Drifter wants and imagines for himself when the Man with the Golden Gun finally hunts him down.

Shin groans, dizzy and heady with it. Before he realizes it, he’s touching himself again, trying to gasp for the breath he can’t get. Drifter’s hand presses down one more time then lets up so quickly, Shin’s lungs freeze from shock.

It’s too late when he feels the gun at his head twitch. The next gasp for air Shin takes is timed with the sound of Drifter’s hand cannon firing loud, and Shin shudders hard, ears ringing.

Drifter draws back, bullet shell dropping behind him. Shin can smell the metallic smoke beside his head from where Drifter had shot the ground next to him. He doesn’t have to look to know there’s a bullet mark near his cheek.

“Like that. That's how he’ll end ya,” Drifter says, getting to his feet and flinging off his helmet. His face is all the way flushed through, open mouth open panting slightly between words. “Well. Sure as hell wouldn't miss like that,” he mutters, almost resentful, and then eyes the mess across Shin’s stomach, “but it did the trick, didn't it?”

Shin stares upwards, still reeling from the aftershocks. His focus is shot through, just a jumble of lingering pleasure and humiliation and anger. Muzzily, he thinks — _even after all that_ , his name hasn’t left Drifter’s mouth. All that pretend. Shin doesn’t expect him to ever say it, but he still _wants_.

The anger comes back quick as always. Shin sits up, the fingers of his gloveless hand digging into the rough metal grating of the floor. Drifter doesn’t know a thing about Shin Malphur. His mouth twists. It could’ve been a smile or a snarl — y _ou don’t know shit about me._

Before he knows it, Shin is up on his feet, making Drifter stumble. Drifter’s jumpy enough to try and point that stupid parody of Thorn at him, but Shin pries the cannon out of his hand, tossing it away like it’s the easiest thing he’s done all day. The flash of fear in Drifter’s eyes could satisfy enough, but Shin isn’t after that. He reaches for Drifter’s neck, closing his fists around the fabric of his cloak. It’s the biggest joke that he’s still letting Drifter wear it now.

_“The fuck, Rene-”_

They struggle for a moment before Shin pulls the cloak off Drifter. After that, it’s only a matter of flinging his own helmet off to join Drifter’s on the ground, face turned downward as he pulls the hood of his cloak over his head. Then, he drops to his knees, hands now making quick work of Drifter’s pants, cloak settling back around his shoulders.

It happens fast enough that he knows Drifter is left standing in mute surprise, and Shin will be damned if he lets Drifter to get a hold of himself.

It’s all pettiness, Shin knows, unable to hide his smirk when he sees that Drifter’s still half hard. He’s not above it. And he’s certainly not above dipping his head down to put Drifter’s cock in his mouth.

“ _Ah, ah fuck_ ,” Drifter chokes, his hips making tiny movements into Shin’s mouth, only to be stilled by Shin’s hands gripping his thighs. Every word afterwards is mumbled through gritted teeth.

That won’t do. Shin pulls back, lips still at the tip of Drifter’s cock as he hums around it. The tease gets him a shudder at his mouth, the taste of precome dripping on his tongue. He hears a moan above him, and Shin rewards that with a more eager lick and his bare hand circling around the base.

Drifter’s quick to pick up what Shin wants, or maybe he’s past caring. He’s loud about it now, groans echoing through the Derelict. A hand digs through Shin’s hood to get at his hair, pulling him closer and closer to his hips. Shin lets him, feeling Drifter’s thighs start to shake beneath his hands. At least he doesn’t have to worry about Drifter peeking, even if he wishes he can glance up to see Drifter’s expression.

Imagining it is nice enough, _hearing_ Drifter come apart is better. Mouth already full of him, Shin forces Drifter’s cock in deeper, pulling off fast and then doing it all over again. It doesn’t take long for Drifter’s voice to break, spilling down Shin’s throat and the rest into his mouth. Shin stays where he is, forehead pressed to Drifter’s abdomen and Drifter’s fingers clenched at the hood of his cloak. Shin swallows, messy with it, and Drifter shudders again.

From the way Drifter is just standing there panting for air, Shin figures he should nudge him out of whatever high he’s going through. He slides his mouth from Drifter’s cock, careful about the hand now resting over his head.

“You really are somethin’,” Drifter says with a breathless laugh. A touch of awe, a little mocking, but not a single trace of fear or suspicion. Might be the most honest Drifter’s ever been with him, dazed as he is. “Really, _really_ are something.”

Shin ducks away from under Drifter’s hand, reaching back for his helmet with a rueful smile.

But apparently not Shin Malphur.


End file.
